


First Signs of Spring

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bring Back Black, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-28
Updated: 2005-10-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just before he defeats Voldemort, Harry brings Sirius back, Orpheus successful at last, but there is almost nothing left of the Sirius Remus remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Signs of Spring

Just before he defeats Voldemort, Harry brings Sirius back, Orpheus successful at last, but there is almost nothing left of the Sirius Remus remembers.

Of course, the Sirius Remus remembers isn't the same as the Sirius he actually _knew_ , which he can admit to himself on these cold November mornings that should feel like warmth and joy and new beginnings, but instead feel like wakes and endings, stained with the faded sepia-tone of old photographs of people whose names he no longer knows, if he ever did.

Sirius curls in on himself, small, silent, grey, and none of these things are _right_ , and Hermione asks, _Did he come back wrong?_ in a fearful tone, all too familiar with Muggle legends of monkeys' paws and the relentless hunger of the undead after battles with Inferi too horrible to remember and too painful to forget.

 _No,_ Harry answers forcefully every time, and Remus shakes his head. _Not wrong, no_. Just, not _Sirius_ in a way he can't explain, even if they knew what he and Sirius had been together before. He's not sure they do, hadn't thought it would ever matter again, but now....

Now Sirius has returned again, and they don't touch at all.

When they were boys, circling each other warily, all secret, sidelong glances and hungry, hurried kisses, Sirius was so loud that Remus had learned special muffling spells to keep their secret safe, weaving their bedcurtains round with charms to keep Peter and James from hearing Sirius's keening and cursing, and the inevitable giggles that overcame them both when they realized they were perpetrating the biggest prank ever, and nobody would ever know.

After Azkaban, they clung to each other fiercely, every touch an invocation of hope so rare and wild it was desperation, the sharp taste of regret in every kiss, and the sheen of borrowed time gilding every action until Remus could almost believe the fairytale wouldn't end. They snuck around like boys again, under Molly's gimlet eye, hiding from Harry the way they'd hid from James. It was all a game again, the intervening years of suspicion and dread ignored, painted over with a thin veneer of forgiveness, understanding and sheer willful obliviousness that would buckle under the slightest pressure, and they both knew it.

Sirius used to bray with laughter at the thought of putting one over on Molly, at thumbing his nose at his mother's mad portrait, Snape, Dumbledore, the world. He used to shout in anger and curse in bitterness, drink himself into a stupor and sing.

Now he slips through Remus's flat like a ghost, eyes too big and ribs too prominent, silent as the grave, as if the slightest sound might end the world, or shatter him into a million pieces. He flinches from the vibrancy he used to embody, and Remus isn't sure Harry has done any of them a kindness by bringing him back, except he knows he's lying to himself when he says that, because even this desolate shadow of Sirius is better than no Sirius at all.

Now he touches Sirius gently, cautiously, and Sirius is silent, stiff, bewildered under his hands, tensing at a touch upon his shoulder, skittish at the accidentally-on-purpose brush of their fingers when passing the jam.

The only time Sirius seems comfortable in his body is when he's Padfoot, and even that seems to overwhelm him sometimes, in ways Azkaban never did.

Over the course of long winter nights in the small, dimly lit flat, Remus curls around him in bed, chaste as nuns, and coaxes him to unbend, to mold himself against Remus's body, angles and planes slotting together awkwardly like pieces of an old jigsaw puzzle warped by damp.

Sirius talks a little more now, his voice a low, whiskey-rough rasp that plays merry havoc with Remus's nerve endings, and he has gained a bit of weight thanks to a steady diet of pasta Remus has been feeding him on, but his eyes are still too often flat and lost, and he still starts at unexpected touches.

On Remus's birthday -- _thirty-nine and not dead yet_ , he thinks, _Sirius has died often enough for us both_ \-- they share a bottle of red wine, and for the first time since he's come back, Sirius is flushed with color, lips and tongue stained red and eyes glittering silver in the flickering candlelight. Remus can't resist -- he leans forward, presses his lips to that wine-dark mouth, and drowns.

Sirius goes still, and Remus himself freezes, afraid he's pushed too far, too fast, greedy for another miracle on top of the one he's already got. Sirius's breath hitches and Remus can feel the rapid arpeggio of his heartbeat under the fingers he's splayed across Sirius's chest, but Sirius doesn't pull away.

"Hey," Remus says when he breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, and Sirius shrugs one shoulder diffidently, his mouth quirking in a rusty, rueful half-grin so familiar it makes Remus's heart ache.

"Happy birthday," Sirius says, eyes sparking with long-lost mischief. "I didn't get you anything."

Remus laughs, delighted, because he's already received the best gift he could never ask for, and says, "It's okay. You can owe me."

There are other kisses after that, longer and fraught with a different sort of tension. Sirius is still silent, but his eyes and lips shine in the darkness, mouth a rounded O as Remus learns him all over again, remapping old territory and finding hidden treasures both familiar and new.

Sirius's hands tremble on Remus's skin, hesitant at first, then growing bolder, curiosity making him thorough, deliberate in his explorations, and Remus struggles to hold onto his patience as he goes up in flames at this exquisite torture, ecstatic tension coiling tight inside him until it's nearly pain. He comes shuddering against Sirius, spilling himself over Sirius's hands, with the taste of Sirius's laughter, soft and joyful, on his lips.

They curl up together when they're done, and Remus thinks that after the long dark night of winter, they will wake to the first signs of spring.

end


End file.
